


‘Cause You’re  A Sky Full Of Stars (I’m Gonna Give You My Heart)

by eli_ssabeth



Category: Coldplay (Band), One Direction (Band)
Genre: 2012!Direction, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, HL Spring Exchange 2016, Jealous Louis, M/M, Matchmaker Zaniam, OT5 Friendship, Oblivious Harry, Oblivious Louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-12
Updated: 2016-04-12
Packaged: 2018-06-01 21:37:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6537193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eli_ssabeth/pseuds/eli_ssabeth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Maybe you should talk to him.” Niall’s saying it more like an instruction than a suggestion, but Louis is good at ignoring inconveniences.<br/>“Or maybe that would just end up being embarrassing when he admits he hates me now and thinks Chris fuckin’ Martin is just the <i>coolest</i> and I’m being replaced as his best mate,” he gripes in response.<br/>“Yeah, and maybe I’ll be the next president of the United States. Seriously, Louis, do you hear yourself when you speak?”</p><p>OR<br/><i>In which Louis and Harry are best friends, and Louis thinks Chris Martin is trying to steal Harry from him. It may be slightly irrational. Featuring Zayn, Niall, and Liam as the lovable (if exasperated) supporting cast who help them get from point A to point B.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	‘Cause You’re  A Sky Full Of Stars (I’m Gonna Give You My Heart)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spotofpurple](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spotofpurple/gifts).



> Happy Spring Exchange!
> 
> Thank you to my wonderful, lovely beta, [Steph](http://www.donnyscheshire.tumblr.com). You're the best.
> 
> Title from Coldplay's A Sky Full of Stars.

When Louis was younger and imagining how his life would play out, being genuinely, justifiably (as much as an irrational emotion can be justified) jealous of Chris Martin, Lead Singer Of World-Famous Band Coldplay, hadn’t made the fantasy. Neither had being part of a world-famous band himself, so Louis guesses younger him was just way off in general. Still, the absurdity of it doesn’t escape his notice.

The point stands, though. His jealousy is one hundred per cent justifiable. Really. It is. Okay? Because Harry is _his_ best friend. And now stupid Chris Martin with his stupid Fame and Success and his [Cool, Cool, Genius](http://www.twitter.com/harry_styles/status/125983356331622400)-ness is swooping in and stealing Harry for himself. And that’s just not fair. He knows Harry can have more than one friend—he does; Harry’s hard not to like so his friend count is probably somewhere in the thousands. But Louis’ isn’t. He’s more particular about his friends and he’s _very_ particular about his best friend and Harry should be honoured, okay, that Louis chose him. 

But clearly he isn’t, because tonight, for the third time in half as many weeks, he’s been stood up. Platonically stood up. He didn’t even know that was a thing until he experienced it. Thrice, now. He thumbs his phone open to Harry’s message thread, willing the last text he received to change its contents.

_To Harold: where r u ? x_  
_From Harold: Heading out with Chris! .xx_

So either Harry forgot that they’re meant to have one of their trademarked Laddy-Lad Bro Nights or he simply doesn’t care. Louis honestly isn’t sure which option sucks more. Sighing heavily, he exits the app only to reopen it (seriously, every time, how has he not learned?) to find Niall’s contact.

_To Token Irish Friend: come over I'm bored_  
_From Token Irish Friend: what happened to haz?_  
_To Token Irish Friend: he's out with Chris or summat . just come over plz ._  
_From Token Irish Friend: sure sure be there soonish_

Tossing his phone on the couch, Louis moves to take a shower. “Soonish” with Niall could mean anywhere between ten minutes and four hours and Louis will take his chances. 

The thing is—and maybe it’s weird to think about your mates whilst naked in the shower but after being on tour with these lads, Louis’ bar has been substantially raised for what’s considered weird—but the thing is that Louis isn’t sure why it bothers him so much. Sure, he hates being left behind or forgotten. He likes attention, okay? That’s how he is and how he probably always will be; no one would do all the weird shit he did during _The X Factor_ video diaries if they didn’t like attention. But he’s also always been the roll-with-the-punches type. Little things like changed plans don’t usually affect him beyond the occasional twinge of annoyance when he’s already made an effort towards it. But this feels different, feels like he can’t shake it.

And maybe it’s because it’s _Harry_. His best mate, his partner-in-crime, the person he’s so ridiculously close with that their fans think they’re romantically involved. Maybe it’s because even his own mum thinks Harry has a hero-worship type thing going on with Louis and so it never crossed Louis’ mind that Harry would ever snub him. But here he is, being snubbed. And it sucks.

Despite being aware of Harry’s multitude of other friends, Louis is used to being first choice for hanging out or going somewhere or _whatever_ and now he feels like he’s coming in second. For some reason, it hurts like he’s coming in last.

Louis steps out of the shower and slings a towel around his waist, knotting it at his hip. He grabs a smaller towel to run through his hair and catch the water droplets so they don’t drip down his neck before depositing it in the laundry hamper in the corner of the bathroom. He pulls on a fresh pair of pants, followed by trackies and a hoodie. He figures this is more effort than necessary, considering it’s just gonna be Niall and him, probably playing FIFA and ordering pizza, so call him a giver. Maybe he’ll even be generous enough to share his beer. 

☆

Several hours and four beers apiece later, Louis and Niall have demolished half a pizza each and Louis has brutally slain Niall at FIFA no less than five times. He’s pleasantly buzzed, almost able to ignore the uncomfortable itch under his skin caused by Harry’s absence. Niall seems to notice Louis’ discomfort, observing him more intensely than Niall usually seems capable of.

“Wanna talk about it?” he asks eventually.

“Talk about what?” Louis responds, feigning ignorance.

“Why you’re wallowing in self-pity just because Harry went somewhere without you.”

“I’m not _wallowing_ , Neil, jeez.” At Niall’s pointed look, he huffs a sigh and mumbles, “Maybe I’m wallowing a bit.”

Niall’s eyebrows shoot up slightly, like he's surprised Louis acquiesced so quickly, but he says nothing.

“I just—” he exhales heavily, eyes fixated on a loose thread at the end of his hoodie sleeve. “Has he outgrown me?” And, fuck. That’s what’s at the heart of it, isn’t it? Harry is Louis’ ultimate best friend ever in the entire universe for all eternity, but what if his mum was right? What if Harry just had some weird sort of hero-worship thing going on and now that he’s older and wiser, he’s realising how much he doesn’t need Louis? It’s not like he wants them to be codependent. It’s just that… well, he feels a little dependent. Is it so wrong to want that to be mutual?

“Lou.” Niall’s voice is far too sharp for the amount of alcohol in his bloodstream and Louis’ head snaps out of his thoughts and up towards Niall. “He hasn’t outgrown you, okay?”

“But—”

“No. I’m serious. Don’t be an idiot. You’re his best mate. It’s a permanent type of deal, okay? You know that.”

Louis’s shaking his head slightly when he says, “I thought I did. But he’s abandoned me three times, Ni. You know how badly I deal with being abandoned.” He grabs the loose thread between his thumb and forefinger, focusing all of his attention on winding it as far as he can around the tip of his finger and watching it cut off his circulation.

“I know. So does Harry. Look, okay. Try to think like Harry. He probably thinks you’re sick of him, right? You spend almost all of your time together and he knows that you get easily bored— no, don’t try to deny it, Tommo. Don’t even.”

“Ni. It’s been two years. How can he possibly think I’d be getting sick of him _now_?” Louis knows he probably sounds pitiful, but he’s a little tipsy and more than a little sad.

“Honestly, I dunno. I’m not as weird—” 

“Oi!” 

“Sorry, _quirky_ —as Harry. But maybe you should talk to him.” Niall’s saying it more like an instruction than a suggestion, but Louis is good at ignoring inconveniences.

“Or maybe that would just end up being embarrassing when he admits he hates me now and thinks Chris fuckin’ Martin is just the _coolest_ and I’m being replaced as his best mate,” he gripes in response.

“Yeah, and maybe I’ll be the next president of the United States. Seriously, Louis, do you hear yourself when you speak?”

Louis lets out a tiny giggle before face-planting directly into Niall’s lap. Niall’s hands are carding through his hair and his eyelids are starting to get heavy (and, really, he has no qualms about falling asleep here with Niall as his pillow) when the door opens and a cheerful “Lou? You home, Blue?” is floating down the hall towards the lounge. Louis grunts loudly in response, discontent with this interruption to his potential sleep. He doesn’t bother opening his eyes and neither he nor Niall make any move to get up or change positions. He hears Harry’s giant feet padding through the flat before they stop abruptly at the entrance of the room. 

He can practically hear the small smile quirked on Harry’s lips when he teasingly asks, “Oh, am I interrupting something here?”

“Yes,” Louis grunts. “Niall here was about to ravish me and take me to bed.”

Niall snorts out a laugh above him and he hears Harry’s small bark of laughter coming from the chair beside the sofa. “Right, well. I’ll let you get back to that, then.”

“Mm,” Louis protests. “How was your date?” He’s pretty sure the sleep-slow drag of his voice hides any contempt he’s feeling from Harry. He hopes. 

“Definitely wasn’t a date. But we had fun. Went to this open mic night where one of Chris’s friends was playing. Nothing fancy.” 

“Fancy enough for you to ditch me,” Louis grumbles into Niall’s thigh. Niall’s hand tightens in his hair, either as a warning or a comfort. He doesn’t care which, if he’s honest. 

“Hm?” Harry questions.

“Nothing,” Niall cuts in smoothly. “He’s just muttering nonsense. He’s a little sleepy, our LouLou.”

“Fuck off, Irish.”

“I’d love to, but you’re currently using my lap as a pillow, mate,” Niall laughs. Louis huffs loudly before dragging himself into a sitting position.

“Happy?” he glares at Niall, receiving a wide grin and a cheeky wink in response.

“Let’s go to bed, Lou.” Louis whips around at Harry’s voice, having almost forgotten he was there. 

“It’s not really a group activity, Harold,” he jokes. Or, tries to seem like he’s joking, despite the insecurities still swirling in his head and the exhaustion building behind his eyelids.

“It is sometimes. Like when cuddles are needed.” Harry's left dimple makes a brief appearance with his words. 

Louis gives him a deadpan look. “Are cuddles needed?”

Harry shrugs easily, a small grin taking up his face. “Could be. I’m always down to spoon.”

Niall stands abruptly, shaking his head slightly down at them. “Well, this is all sickeningly domestic and I’m gonna take it as my cue to leave.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Louis flaps his hand at him dismissively. “Don't let the door hit you on your way out.” Niall ruffles Louis’ hair just to be a little shit before extending his fist for Harry to bump with his own. They all say goodnight and Niall is barely out the door before Louis is texting him.

_To Token Irish Friend: thanks for tonite . sorry I'm a twat . make it up to u with pints soon , yeah ?_

He doesn't have time to wait for a response because he suddenly finds himself with a lapful of curls. He looks up from his phone to find Harry in the world’s strangest position: his head is on Louis’ thigh, just above his knee, with his body at a forty-five degree angle to keep his bum planted on the cushion of the chair, and his knees are hooked over the arm furthest from Louis. Most of his body is essentially suspended between the sofa and the chair and Louis is starting to worry how bad this is for Harry's back. 

“Whatcha doin’?” Harry sing-songs with a lazy smile and sparkling green eyes. God, he's so beautiful. 

Louis might be drunker than he thought. It's not like he's blind or, God forbid, straight. He knows Harry is beautiful. _Everyone_ knows Harry is beautiful. But he tries to bottle it away, ignore the way Harry can sometimes make his breath hitch in his chest with a simple smile. No need to acknowledge it too often and let it turn into something else—something wholly complicated and painful and unneeded. Actively forcing it into a tiny, locked cupboard at the back of his mind is the best course of action. Definitely.

Louis brings his attention back to Harry and smiles softly at him, bringing one hand to his curls to scratch lightly at his scalp. 

“Just texting Neil,” he finally remembers to respond. 

“He's been gone two minutes!” Harry's grin turns into a playful glare. “Did you go and get codependent with someone else? Am I being replaced?!” he gasps, clutching his chest dramatically. 

And that just hits a little close to home, doesn't it. His fingers tighten slightly in Harry's hair without his permission and he forces a small laugh out of his throat, hoping it's enough to get the conversation dropped. 

It occurs to him belatedly that he's trying to fool the one person in the world who might actually know him better than he knows himself, and that’s including his mum. Harry moves to shift onto his side, but mostly ends up flailing until he somehow ends up with his bum on the ground and his back against the front of the sofa. They lock eyes for a second, Harry’s wide and green and slightly shocked, before Louis bursts out laughing. 

“How did you even _manage_ that, Haz?”

“Shut up,” he grumbles back, lower lip jutting out into a pout.

“Sorry, love. C’mere, yeah?” Louis tugs lightly at the collar of Harry’s shirt until Harry raises himself up enough to sit next to Louis on the couch. Harry melts into him instantly, hunching his back so his cheek can rest on Louis’ shoulder. Louis strokes a hand up and down his spine in broad sweeps. “All right?”

“Yeah. Are you?” Harry asks, blinking up to lock gazes with Louis, his eyes searching and making Louis feel very exposed. He forces a small smile onto his face.

“‘Course I am.”

“Lou,” Harry sighs, sounding small and sad. “Please tell me what’s wrong.”

And for a split second, Louis considers it. He considers telling him about how lately he’s been having ugly feelings that he doesn’t even understand himself yet, about how he feels like he’s _too_ aware of Harry when Harry seems barely aware of him. He almost tells him he’s afraid he’s being left behind or replaced, or how he wouldn’t even blame Harry if that were the case. But he knows that the only thing that would accomplish is either hurting Harry if he’s wrong or hurting himself if he’s right. Instead, he settles for, “Just missed you, Haz. ‘S all.” Harry studies him for a moment too long before accepting his response reluctantly. A moment passes before a small, cheeky smile is creeping up Harry’s face.

“What?” Louis raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Well… “ Harry draws the vowel out so long that Louis seriously considers pinching him to get him to quit. Harry continues before it comes to that, thankfully, with, “Since you missed me so much, we should snuggle!” His dimple takes up his entire cheek, his voice the embodiment of an overexcited puppy, and Louis blames the blinding effect of Harry’s huge smile for his agreement before he can even properly consider the options. 

Suddenly, he’s being pulled up and into his own room, Harry shoving him towards the en suite with instructions to get ready for bed and that he’ll meet him in twenty minutes. Having already showered, Louis simply takes the time to have a wee, wash his hands and face, and brush his teeth. He doesn’t bother changing his clothes before he’s flipping the overhead lights off in both the bathroom and bedroom, leaving the lamps on the bedside tables as the only source of light in the room. 

When Harry returns, curls still wet, in his favourite pair of plaid pyjama bottoms and his hole-y Rolling Stones t-shirt, bare toes sliding quietly along the floor, Louis is scrolling through his Twitter feed and responding to a few fans’ tweets. He glances up when Harry makes his way into the room, locking his phone and plugging it in on the table next to him. Harry gives him the type of sleepy smile that is only elicited when he’s exhausted and freshly showered. 

“Ged ‘ere, then, Styles,” Louis says, pulling the covers to his right down so Harry can slide underneath them. Harry grins at him, murmuring something to himself before he’s lying on his back and turning toward Louis, who mirrors his grin before sliding further down the bed until he’s lying down, too. They both turn off the lamps on their bedside tables and then Harry’s left hand is in Louis’ and he’s pulling him with him as he turns towards the edge of the bed. 

They’ve done this enough times—it’s not weird, it’s _not_ —that they settle easily into the position.

“Lou?” Harry calls softly after a few moments of quiet. 

“Mm?” 

“Since I’m taller than you now,” he starts, and Louis pinches his tummy through his shirt in retaliation, “is this technically jet packing?”

Louis peeks one eye open to give Harry a half-baked judgemental look that isn’t even visible to the other boy. “What are you on about, Harry? Spooning’s spooning.” Under his breath, he adds, “Jet packing, _honestly_. I get a tattoo for you and this is how you repay me.”

Harry’s body shakes slightly in his arms as he lets out a small giggle. “Don’t be silly, Lou. You got _two_ for me.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he pretends to grumble, rolling his eyes behind closed lids. He feels Harry’s thumb pressing into the spot where he has “Oops!” permanently inked on the arm under his body and moves the one on top to let the pad of his pointer finger graze the “Hi” on the inside of Harry’s bicep.

So maybe getting complementary tattoos wasn’t effective in silencing the rumours of “Larry Stylinson,” but they loved them so much that it didn’t matter. After they got their first words to each other tattooed, Harry somehow managed to convince Louis to get a second set. He didn’t really see it coming; it’d started with Harry, sprawled over him after marathoning _Chopped_ and murmuring about how he wants a reminder not to lose himself in the chaos that has become their lives. 

“How d’you mean?” Louis had asked quietly into Harry’s hair.

“Like… a reminder that no matter what happens I’m still me, y’know? We’re still us. Can’t change that.” 

“Ditto. I like that,” Louis’d said after letting Harry’s words settle for a beat.

And somehow, when he’d accompanied Harry to get his tattoo, Harry’s green Bambi eyes had managed to convince him into one too. “Just a ditto,” he’d murmured, his pupils slightly dilated and his smile loopy from the needles digging into his skin. Louis’ eyes had darted between Harry’s face to the delicate bones in his wrist twice before he found himself nodding and filling out the paperwork for a new tattoo.

Almost like he can read Louis’ thoughts, Harry’s thumb drifts up to Louis’ inner wrist and quickly brushes over the quotation marks there. Louis’ hand moves, too, down Harry’s arm to squeeze his wrist, where it’s marked with **I CAN’T CHANGE** , without opening his eyes. In this moment, Louis thinks maybe his worries and jealousy were silly and unfounded. Maybe.

Eventually their fingers still and their breathing evens and they drift off into sleep. 

☆

Two days later, Louis is sharing a couch meant for two with four other boys as they mindlessly consume a truly shocking amount of Chinese food and beer, ribbing each other and unwinding from the day’s meetings and rehearsals.

“Hey, Haz,” Niall pipes up from where he’s somehow managed to sprawl himself across all of their laps, lo mein noodles dangling from his lips. The other four boys turn to look at him expectantly with a synchronicity that almost seems choreographed.

“Why,” he swallows his mouthful of food before filling it with more and continuing, “is Sugarscape talkin’ about shipping you with Chris Martin?” He grins so wide his cheeks puff up and Louis rolls his eyes at him. 

Harry lets out a small, surprised laugh into Louis’ collarbone, where his face has been pressed since he declared himself full and let Zayn finish his spring roll. “I dunno, mate, they also say Lou and I are married. They believe what they want.”

“Yes, but they have foundation for believing you guys are married,” Zayn insists, freeing his second hand from somewhere under their bodies to gesture at their combined form. Louis’ small huff of laughter gets caught in Harry’s curls.

“Mm, yeah, fair.” Harry mutters, sounding closer and closer to sleep with every syllable. “I dunno. I tweeted about him a couple times, like, last year or something. And now people actually know we exist and I guess he saw the tweets. And he mentioned me in an interview or something, according to some fans. We’ve hung out a few times, though, ‘s whatever.”

Louis pointedly ignores both the twinge of annoyance in his gut and the rude retort on the tip of his tongue in favour of poking Harry in the cheek until it dips into a dimple under his finger.

He certainly doesn’t expect it to become a thing after that. Sugarscape is a fun website, sure, and their interviews there are always enjoyable, but he didn’t think that article would be significant enough to be mentioned in the press interview they do two weeks later. Sure enough, though, here it is.

“So, Harry,” the interviewer smiles, her eyes a touch too hungry to be considered genuine or warm. “A few days ago, we interviewed Chris Martin, who I hear is a friend of yours?”

Harry smiles a small, kind smile. “Yeah, he’s a great guy. We’ve hung out a couple times.”

“He told us you’re his, and I quote, ‘man crush,’” she continues insistently, as though there’s anything to be revealed and as though, if there were, it would be revealed to her first. Louis just barely refrains from shaking his head at the stupidity of it all. Harry, on the other hand, looks delighted in a highly amused way. His whole face is lit up from the grin plastered on it and when he speaks, his voice wavers ever so slightly with unsung laughter.

“That’s very nice of him to say. I s’pose I’ve got a bit of a ‘man crush,’” he actually does the air quotes and Louis very decidedly does not roll his eyes, “on him, as well.” Louis is very tempted to check in with the other boys and see if they’re finding this whole thing as ridiculous as he is, but remembers the pleas (read: threats) of his team to behave for _just one interview, Louis_. He shifts restlessly in his seat before arranging his face into a placid sort of smile and inclining his head towards the interviewer.

Louis isn't sure why it gets under his skin so easily, this thing with Chris. The guy's well-known, One Direction, and by extension, _Harry_ are well-known, crazy as that may seem. But every time it happens, it gets more and more frustrating for him. He barely made it through the first interview, had to nearly bite through his tongue not to say anything snarky and risk the wrath of their team. The second interview doesn't go nearly as well. He's in a rubbish mood anyway, sleep-deprived and hungry because no one seems to understand they're still teenaged boys and therefore need a lot of food to get through the day. Besides which, he's out of his tea and hasn't had a chance to get more. 

All of which adds up to being in a shit mood, which significantly lowers his tolerance for interviews in general and interviews mentioning Chris Martin in particular. He feels Harry’s questioning gaze on him when the interviewer asks Harry if he and Chris are friends and Louis bitterly mutters, “Best friends,” under his breath, but he doesn't bother acknowledging it. 

He rolls his eyes so often during that portion of the interview that he's pretty sure they're just going to cut him out altogether. Not his problem. He's up and out of the room before they even manage to finish saying, "that's a wrap.” 

He just needs to breathe for a second, he tells himself. It's not the same as running away.

He repeats the mantra when he's out of his seat and heading towards the door after the next interview, too. He's not even sure the cameras are off.

Zayn and Niall corner him after the third time he storms away at the end of an interview. He felt their eyes, all four of them, on him as he was leaving, but he’d barely spared it a thought as he walked away.

Now, though, with Niall’s usually sunshine-y face somber and Zayn offering him a cigarette without the usual obnoxious hints that Louis drops (“It just doesn’t make sense to buy my own, y’know? I only smoke _socially_.”), he can tell there’s something they’re not saying. Most likely something they’re about to say very soon. 

“What?” he finally sighs through a heavy exhale of smoke. “Why are you both acting like my dog died?”

They exchange an uneasy look for a moment and Louis genuinely considers leaving. Seriously, what the _fuck_ is this? 

"Lads?" he presses. "Something to share with the class?"

Now it's Zayn's turn to sigh. "Look, Louis. Why've you been stroppin' about after every interview where they mention Chris Martin? It's stressful, yeah?"

Louis blanches. "I do _not_." 

"Yeah, Lou, ya do," Niall cuts in. "I thought you liked him? I’ve def-o heard you singing his shit in the shower. What's with the sudden hatred?"

"There's not hatred! Sudden or otherwise!" Louis exclaims, slightly embarrassed at the mention of his showerly endeavours, his hands coming up forcefully as though that will prove his point further. 

"Mate," Zayn says, inclining his head pointedly, if a little condescendingly. 

Normally Louis would have his head for it, but his own is already spinning from this strange sequence of events. Not that he'll ever admit it to, like, anyone, but every time Chris was brought up in interviews—only ever to Harry because they're each other's man crushes, apparently—he got a strange prickly feeling just beneath the surface of his skin. 

It's not like he's not aware he's possessive, okay. But for some reason, this just seems more intense. Maybe it's the absurdity of it all. He almost says as much to Niall and Zayn before realising that that would require admitting to his weird possessive jealousy and in no universe is he going to willingly do that.

"Look. I appreciate the concern. But has it ever occurred to you that maybe I'm just in a pissy mood? I seem to remember being called 'stroppy' a fair number of times without you going all FBI on my arse."

"Chill, babe, we're just try'na help," Zayn says and Louis can almost see the restraint he's using to stop his eyes from rolling.

"Just—" Niall pauses to scrunch his nose as the wind shifts their smoke into his face, "maybe consider why you're getting so jealous—no, don't deny it, we're not stupid—about Harry having a new friend, okay?" His voice has gotten weirdly soft and Louis finally lifts his face from where he's been death glaring the pavement to meet his eyes.

He knows he's being tetchy and he knows these boys don't deserve that from him. Scrubbing a hand down his face, he exhales heavily. 

"Okay, fine. Maybe you have a point," he acquiesces, dropping the butt of his cigarette to the ground and pressing into it with the heel of his trainer. "I dunno what it is, but maybe it's something. Sorry for being so… weird about it." 

"Don't worry about it, mate. Maybe cool it, though? Harry's about one storm-off from figuring it out himself and you know how he gets." Niall and Louis are both nodding in agreement by the end of Zayn's statement. 

Louis _does_ know how Harry gets, knows he'll think _he_ did something wrong, something to upset Louis or make him angry and that's just not true. Maybe Louis can't quite sort out the mess in his head right now, but he knows that none of this is Harry's fault. Logically, he knows that none of this is Chris's fault, either, but he's fine with continuing that line of blame for a little longer. Just until his thoughts settle a bit. 

He pulls a lungful of air before he slings an arm around each of the other boys' necks and forces them into a group hug, shameless.

"Thanks, lads," he says quietly into the space between them. "But I hope you know that by having this conversation, you've more or less given me express permission to bitch to you endlessly." 

At his words, Zayn groans only half-jokingly and Niall grins brightly, seemingly unbothered. They're still hugging when Liam's head pops through the door from inside and informs them that it's time to head back to the hotel. 

☆

It’s not that Louis is complaining about the sudden influx of affection from Harry, nor the sudden influx of time he spends home with Louis instead of out with other people. He loves it, really, and the selfish part of him would gladly keep Harry locked away from the rest of the world for much longer than this if it were possible. He just doesn't understand why Harry is up at the arsecrack of dawn on their day off to make fajitas.

When he says as much, Harry replies, "It's not the arsecrack of dawn, Lou. It's nearly half twelve." Louis guffaws indignantly, trying to convey that on a day off half twelve is most definitely far too early to be awake. "And," Harry continues, "I wanted to make your favourite meal for lunch because we're going out for dinner." 

Louis will deny that his heart skips a beat when he first hears the words until he dies. Once he comes back to reality, he narrows his eyes at Harry. "We _who_?"

Harry turns back to the steak and peppers cooking on the hob, smiling a tiny, sheepish smile. "You, me… "

"And?" Louis prompts, his eyebrows arching high on his forehead.

"And Chris?" Harry answers shyly.

"Harold."

"Lou, please. I don't know why you don't like him, but _please_. Give him a shot. You're my best mate. And he's a really cool guy. I want you to get on with him. It's so nice to have a friend in the business who can really talk music, y'know?"

Louis nods begrudgingly. "Fine," he grits out, raising his chin in an imitation of haughtiness. "But only for the fajitas."

Harry smiles, the beginnings of his dimples forming in his cheeks as he inclines his head to brush his lips against Louis’ temple. He stays close as he agrees, "Of course. Naturally." 

☆

As much as he griped about the outing before they left, Louis is actually kind of having fun. They decided to go to a nice restaurant known for its discretion, which Louis is grateful for. It’s not that he doesn’t love their fans—he does, he owes them so much, the band owes them _so much_ —but it’s nice to have a night out to themselves. Well, that, and Louis knows he’s not necessarily in the right mood to be meeting fans.

The important thing is that it’s not going at all how he’d envisioned. Instead of Harry and Chris chatting and laughing and leaving Louis out completely, it’s almost exactly how it usually is when it’s just the two of them; Harry graciously allows Louis to steal food from his plate and doesn’t complain when Louis bats away his attempts to do the same, they share the same side of the booth, their bodies pressed together from knee to shoulder, Harry is still ridiculously clingy and lovely. The only difference is now their conversations include a third party. 

And Chris is pretty all right, if he’s honest. He’s able to hold his own in a conversation with both Louis and Harry simultaneously, which isn’t something most people can do on their first try. He keeps up with Louis’ sharp comments whilst also patiently giving Harry the time to speak when he’s telling a story. Louis can almost see why Harry likes him so much.

He probably wouldn’t be as all right with it if he didn’t have Harry’s warmth all along his side and Harry’s cheek smooshed into his shoulder, but that doesn’t really matter in the face of Harry’s attempts to seemingly morph them into one.

In fact, three hours, a location change, and a few shots later, Harry is still fairly firmly plastered to him. Louis tells himself the fluttering he feels in his stomach is just because of the tequila, just because it’s been awhile since he’s been in a place filled with too-loud laughter and too-close bodies pressing into his. 

Chris comes back from his latest dance to lean his weight on Harry and, in turn, Louis as he slurs out, “We should, like… open a barber shop.”

Louis’s pretty drunk, but he’s also pretty sure there’s no logical reason on the planet that any of them should leave their successful jobs in music to cut hair for a living. He’s also heard that hair splinters hurt. A lot. So he’ll pass. Harry, however, giggles and humours Chris, leaning into him just enough that Louis can feel the loss of Harry’s weight against him.

“Why?” Harry drawls, extending the vowel sound.

“‘Cause then, right? We can, like, call it _Hairy Styles_.” Chris is laughing so hard at his own pun that he almost can’t finish saying it. Harry joins in with his silly, little-kid giggles that he only lets out when he’s drunk or overtired and even Louis begrudgingly huffs out a small laugh. It’s a _terrible_ pun, okay? Like, so bad that laughter is the only feasible reaction.

Harry’s laughter is just starting to die down when he plants his cheek on Louis’ shoulder, his curls tickling Louis’ collarbone. When Louis cranes his neck to look down at Harry, their eyes lock and suddenly they’re laughing so hard no sound comes from their mouths. 

Louis’ stomach is still seizing as his voice comes back just enough to let out high-pitched, breathless giggles and he goes stumbling back into the bar, Harry still attached to his front. 

Harry lets out a little “oof” noise and Louis’ laughter falters just long enough for him to get out, “Oops.”

Harry’s eyes are sparkling conspiratorially when he replies, “Hi,” grinning widely. Louis only rolls his eyes, his mouth stretching into an answering grin without his consent. 

Chris swoops in, then, handing Harry another drink and talking into his ear to be heard over the bass of the music and all the people around them. Harry grins, then giggles, then shifts his weight from Louis to Chris and suddenly there’s no longer laughter in Louis’ chest. He narrows his eyes at the two of them before he decides to ignore it altogether, turning to the bar and ordering a beer. He downs it quickly, maybe too quickly, barely able to process or appreciate its cold tanginess before it’s empty and he’s setting it back on the bar.

He turns around to find Harry and Chris, only to see they’ve moved. Harry is now sitting on a stool a few down from Louis and Chris is hovering by his side, his elbow on the bar and his fingers brushing Harry’s arm. Their heads are still bent together and they seem to be having a serious conversation. Harry’s head is tilted so his ear is closer to Chris and his eyebrows are furrowed above his bright green eyes, which are focused on a nondescript point towards the floor. Suddenly, his expression clears and he smiles happily, moving his head to look at Chris properly.

Louis swallows the bitterness building at the back of his tongue and pushes through the crowds of people towards the loo. He manages to splash some water on his face and stare at his reflection for all of sixty seconds before someone else enters, opening the door and allowing him to hear Harry’s voice calling for him from beyond it.

“Lou?” he calls, his voice endearingly and ridiculously high-pitched. “Is my Lou in the loo?” Maybe if Louis was slightly soberer, he’d be annoyed by the sing-song quality of Harry’s voice around the vowels, but as it stands, he’s just stupidly charmed. He figures that last drink Chris gave him broke the threshold between _pretty drunk_ and _holy shit he's wasted_. Harry's weird like that, when he's drinking.

Louis takes a final breath before he exits the toilets, finding Harry looking confused and vaguely disgruntled, turning in a slow circle slightly beyond the doorway.

“Haz? Y’all right?” he questions as he approaches him, suppressed laughter shining through in his voice. Harry’s head whips towards him immediately, eyes bright and smile slightly lopsided.

“Now I am!” he crows in response, flinging his arms around Louis in a loose embrace that tightens out of necessity when he goes lax on top of him. Louis brings his arm around his waist to hold him steady, huffing dramatically in his ear.

“Wanna go home, love?” he murmurs. Harry nods and Louis can’t see, but he knows Harry’s already lost the battle to keep his eyes open. “All right. Where’s Chris? Should at least say bye, yeah?”

He feels Harry shake his head before he’s sleepily muttering into his shoulder. “He left already. Said he wants t’ let us talk.” Louis’ brow furrows before Harry continues. “Think ‘m too drunk to talk.”

Louis lets a small, exasperated laugh out of his mouth as he nods his head. “I reckon y’are. Maybe tomorrow, yeah? Want me to call a cab?” 

“Mm,” Harry agrees, probably already most of the way to sleep on Louis’ shoulder. 

Eventually, Louis manages to get them both safely into a cab, then out of the cab, then up to their flat—he’s never been so grateful for a lift, probably—and finally manages to dump Harry in his bed. He takes off his boots and makes a truly noble attempt to peel Harry’s jeans off his legs before giving up and deciding Harry can deal with it himself when he wakes up. He finds some paracetamol in Harry’s en suite and puts it on his bedside table with a bottle of water before declaring his best mate duties complete and dragging himself to his own bed, stripping down as soon as he’s in the room without bothering to turn on any lights. He’s asleep by the time his head hits the pillow. 

☆

Louis wakes up as the sun’s light filters into his room through the windows, far too bright where he left the shades open the day before. He comes to himself slowly, cataloguing the smooth feel of his sheets pressed against his left side and the warmth he’s cocooned in as he stretches his whole body out like a cat, his eyelids pressing impossibly closer to one another. It’s only when his muscles release that he realises there’s another, unexpected sensation, and he’s pretty sure its name is Harry.

He feels the soft skin of the inside of Harry’s elbow resting on his ribs, his shoulders melded to the back of Louis’ own. There’s space between most of their bodies, the only other meeting point being where their ankles are twisted together, the downy hair of Harry’s shins tickling Louis’ calves. Louis’ eyes shoot open at that, because he knows Harry was wearing jeans when he put him in his bed; he'd personally fought them before giving up. He glances back and sees Harry’s shirtless as well, leaving him to simply pray that he's at least got his pants still on. 

He’s not even sure how he’d go about checking without disturbing Harry, which turns out to be a moot point when Harry’s stirs awake before Louis can even consider a plan of action. Harry’s legs bicycle slightly, moving Louis’ with them as he huffs loud breaths into Louis’ hair, as if he’s unconsciously trying to convince himself to wake up. When his tongue darts out to lick his lips and he manages to lick Louis’ ear instead, Louis officially puts his foot down. Well, more like his hand. On Harry’s face.

“Hu— wha'?” comes Harry’s sleep-rough and somehow deeper-than-usual voice as his upper body jerks slightly back from Louis. Louis simply grins at him, seeming as cheerful as possible just to be a little shit.

“Morning, sunshine!” he trills and feels a smirk grow on his face when Harry groans in response. 

Harry takes a moment to gather his bearings before he’s looking back at Louis with wide eyes and clearing his throat.

“Uh… why’m I in your bed?”

“Y’know, Harold, I had that same thought when I woke up. Since then, however,” Louis’ voice is still annoyingly, and intentionally, chipper, “I’ve moved onto the question of your state of dress. Please tell me you’ve got your pants on.”

Harry’s arm makes his way off of Louis’ side in order to check (because it’s _Harry_ , what did Louis expect?) and Louis adamantly does not mourn the loss of his touch.

When he glances back at Harry, he’s smiling dopily at him. “Yup. All good in the pants department.”

“Well, thank God for that,” Louis replies. “How’s your hangover?”

As if Louis’ words reminded Harry’s body it was supposed to be suffering, Harry is instantaneously groaning and squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Ugh, awful,” he laments.

“Well, that’s a shame. You should learn to drink more responsibly, young Harold.”

“Kindly fuck off, _Lewis_ ,” Harry replies, his grin belying his words.

Louis sighs in a dramatic, put-upon way, before suggesting, “How about we both get ourselves back to human and then we’ll go to that restaurant on the corner and get a proper fry-up, hmm? Maybe you can tell me about this talk Chris wanted us to have.” 

Harry groans again, a light blush colouring his cheeks. “Can we skip the talk? I think I'm too hungover for it."

Maybe Louis would usually push Harry into spilling, but he doesn't like the way Harry's avoiding making eye contact or the way there's a weight settling heavily in his own stomach, so he lets it go.

"Sure, babe. Whatever you want.”

He suddenly finds himself engulfed by Harry once again as he koala hugs him from the side and smacks a wet kiss on his cheek. “I knew you were my favourite for a reason.”

Louis laughs as his heart clenches, wiping at his cheek with dramatic motions and equally dramatic retching noises. 

“All right, Styles. Up and at ‘em.” 

☆

Louis’ jaw landed somewhere on the floor, he's sure of it. He'd look for it, but his eyes are wide and locked on where Harry is grooming himself in the full-length mirror attached to the door of his closet.

Because, surely, “You're not serious?”

Harry's eyes flicker to meet his in the mirror. “Why wouldn't I be?” he asks slowly, like he's hoping Louis will fill in the blanks before the words leave his mouth.

“It's... It's Thursday," Louis protests, his voice sounding shaky and weak to his ears. 

“Yeah," Harry agrees, like Thursdays aren't a special day of the week. Sacred, even. Thursdays are _their_ days. Louis feels vaguely like he woke up in an alternate dimension where he and Harry aren't best mates and, if he's honest, he'd like to go home. Now. Please.

“Well, have fun," Louis unceremoniously cuts into Harry's excited babbling about the whatever-the-fuck he's going to _without Louis_. "I have exciting plans for tonight, too. Super exciting.”

“I'm glad, Lou," Harry smiles and Louis can't tell if he’s humouring him or honestly believes what he's saying at face value, but either way, he kind of wants to throttle him.

He keeps his half-convincing smile plastered on his face until after Harry presses a kiss into his hair and tells him to have fun, the door clicking closed behind him.

Five hours later, Louis’ hands are shaking as one holds his phone to his ear and the other travels the path to his mouth repeatedly, holding a cigarette.

“Wha’?” Zayn’s sleep-thick voice comes through the line. “‘S half three, why’re you calling me?”

“Can I come over?” is all Louis says, his voice shaking almost as badly as his hands.

“Shit,” Zayn swears under his breath, suddenly sounding much more alert. “Yeah, ‘course. Door’s open.”

Louis really, really loves Zayn for not asking questions right now. 

To his credit, he only breaks a few traffic laws on his way to Zayn’s flat, barely slowing down until he’s in the car park outside his building. He keys in the code and takes the lift up to Zayn’s penthouse, letting himself in and toeing his shoes off inside the door. 

Zayn makes his way over to him, already looking worried, his hair disheveled and only wearing a pair of worn joggers. Louis takes one look at him, standing there concerned and barely-awake with his arms open, and falls forward into his tiny frame, face crumpling. He’s letting out ugly sobs and wetting Zayn’s collarbone with his tears, but neither of them make to move away and Louis lets himself be held. 

Eventually, Zayn’s hands unclasp from his waist so one of them can stroke up and down his spine as Louis’ breathing evens out and his sobs quiet down. 

“Ready to talk?” Zayn murmurs into his hair. Louis nods his head minutely, his nose flattening against Zayn’s chest in the process as he sniffles. 

“I’m sorry for waking you up,” he mumbles as they separate.

“Don’t apologise,” Zayn responds as he shakes his head. “Just… explain, please.”

“Well,” he starts, a single dry chuckle coming out with it. “Harry wasn't home, which is an important fact to be aware of for this story.” Zayn shoots him a questioning look at that, but Louis shakes his head, continuing. “Anyway. I was bored out of my skull because you and Ni and Liam were all off doing your own thing and it was too late to make plans and I’d thought I _had_ plans and… whatever,” he shakes his head again. “The point is, I was bored, so I went on Twitter, like you do.”

When he pauses, Zayn raises his eyebrows at him and prompts him to continue. 

“They’re just… they’re so mean,” he finishes, his voice thick and heavy, eyes wet again. Zayn closes the distance between them to wrap his arms around Louis again. “We have so many wonderful fans, and a decent number of creepy ones, but I read at least ten tweets tonight telling me to go kill myself. Who… who does that?” he sniffles again, eyes brimming with tears.

“Lou,” Zayn sighs sadly. “You shouldn’t go there. Stick to the nice ones, yeah? Log out when you see a mean one if it’s gonna affect you.”

Louis heaves a sigh, trying to burrow himself deeper into Zayn’s embrace. For all that he is bony, Zayn is also an incredible cuddler. 

“I know, I know. But I was already having a shit night, y’know? Just kind of fed the misery. Plus, Harry’s at least eighty per cent of my impulse control.”

“Yeah, where was he?” Zayn inquires and Louis can almost feel how his brow is furrowed. 

“I’ll give you a fucking guess,” Louis replies bitterly.

“Out with Chris? Again? But it’s Thursday.” Louis figures his reaction isn’t that extreme if even Zayn sounds a bit exasperated and a lot incredulous. And to think he almost liked Chris that one time Harry had brought him along to one of their hang outs.

“Yup,” Louis pops the P obnoxiously as he and Zayn put enough space between them to walk. They immediately head towards Zayn’s room and Louis will never stop appreciating having friends who let him crash in their beds with them, no questions asked.

“And he wasn’t home when you left?” Zayn asks, still sounding a big incredulous.

“Nope,” he pops the P again. “Texted at half one to let me know he’d be crashing elsewhere. So that was that.”

“That’s,” Zayn pauses and Louis isn’t sure if it’s because he doesn’t know what to say or because he’s struggling to sort out his duvet. “Unexpected,” he finishes a beat later.

“Is it, though? At this point?” Louis asks rhetorically. “Soon they’ll have complementary tattoos, too. Three, just to best me.”

“Lou…” Zayn sighs, but it sounds only partially exasperated. He can hear the amusement and fondness in there. Zayn’s not fooling anyone.

“Yeah, whatever,” he flaps a hand at him as he crawls into the bed (on the wrong side, mind you, because Zayn is a wanker who sleeps on the same side as Louis and apparently it being his bed gives him, like, rights or something.)

He falls asleep feeling significantly better, but there’s a weight on his chest that’s still constant and uncomfortable. 

☆

“Oh, Boo bear!” Harry’s voice trills down the hallway towards Louis, who is currently sprawled along the couch in such a way as to take up the entire thing.

“I’ll kill you!” he sing-songs back, his voice equal to Harry’s in brightness. Harry’s giggles precede him into the room, where he dimples down at Louis.

After spending the night at Zayn’s last night, there’s still a part of Louis that is very much struggling to forgive Harry, because so far it’s kind of like communism: it works on paper, but not as much in real life. He can’t be mad at Harry when he’s actually faced with him, but that doesn’t erase the hurt he experiences at the reminder of being ditched yet again. 

He glances up at Harry, in all his bright-eyed, wild-haired glory, and returns his dimples with a small smile of his own. Harry looks down at Louis’ legs in what is probably meant to be a request to make room for him. Louis ignores it.

“All right?” Harry asks, seemingly giving up on Louis cooperating and simply plopping down on Louis’ shins. 

“Oi!” Louis responds, bouncing his shins up and down in an attempt to dislodge Harry. When it inevitably fails, he grumbles a little as he responds, “Yeah, fine.”

“What’d you do last night?” Harry presses, brows furrowing slightly at Louis’ short response.

“Oh, y’know, the usual. Got cancelled on, went on Twitter, drove to Zayn’s at half three and cried on him. Same as every Thursday night.” Louis has the feeling his plan to remain cool and aloof might have gone astray. Oops. He resolutely looks ahead at the telly while Harry rearranges himself so he’s facing Louis (at the expense of Louis’ shins because, ow.)

“What are you talking about? Why were you crying at Zayn’s? Who cancelled on you?” Harry’s voice raises slightly in both pitch and volume with each word until he sounds nearly hysterical.

“ _You_ cancelled on me. And I cried at Zayn’s because of Twitter. Keep up, Styles,” Louis huffs, keeping his eyes locked on the screen in front of him, some footie match he doesn’t give a toss about flickering across it, and crossing his arms tightly over his chest as a sort of self-defence, as if his arms will prevent the conversation from snowballing out of his control any further. 

“Wha— I didn’t cancel on you, Lou! What’re you on about?” Harry looks so genuinely offended at the notion of _cancelling_ on Louis that Louis almost wants to laugh. His heart hasn’t gotten the memo and seems to be continuing to lean more towards crying, though, so he rolls his eyes up towards the ceiling to prevent any tears from actually falling. 

“What am I _on about_?” Louis exclaims suddenly after a tense beat passes and he feels more confident that his voice won’t sound pubescent when he speaks, the outburst surprising himself and definitely Harry, if the little jerk his body gives is any indication. “I am on about, _Harold_ , the fact that of the last maybe ten plans we’ve made, you’ve cancelled on seven of them,” he continues forcefully and, aaah, there’s the anger. 

“And not even politely, might I add, oh, little posh boy of Cheshire,” okay, where the fuck did that come from? “But by letting me wait around for you until I finally text and ask where you are and you’re _out_ with _Chris fucking Martin_. Or you text at half one in the bloody morning to let me know that you’re sleeping somewhere else when I’ve been waiting up for you for hours!” 

Louis’ chest is heaving and somewhere during his speech, he managed to free himself from under Harry’s weight and he’s now standing next to the couch, looking down at Harry with undeniably wet cheeks. Harry meets his gaze, his mouth and eyes wide in surprise and Louis just. Can’t be here anymore. He turns on his heel and stalks out the door, pausing only briefly to collect his keys and his TOMS at the threshold.

And then he starts running. Running away from Harry and the hurt and guilt and sadness that comes from all the things he’s been bottling up until he exploded on Harry in the living room of their flat. God, he’s such a dick. How could he just lose it on Harry? Harry, who clearly had no idea he’d even been doing anything wrong and looked so upset at the idea of hurting Louis that _Louis_ started to feel bad. He doesn’t think that’s fair, though. Or maybe it is. What’s more incriminating, intentions or actions? He doesn’t know. He’s a mess.

He keeps running. 

He runs as fast as he can, his heart pounding in his chest. Out of the corner of his eye he sees a young teenage girl with a phone held in front of her and quickly cuts off on a side street and hopes she won’t follow. 

He runs until he can’t anymore, focusing on the feel of the pavement pounding beneath his feet and the air in his lungs being expelled forcefully, and then he runs some more. When he can't run anymore, he keeps walking, not sure where he's going until he finds himself at Zayn’s flat, heaving for breath that he thinks he lost before he started running. His fingers tremble as he pulls out his phone to write a text to him.

_To Vain Zayn: are u home ?_

He only waits a moment before receiving an answer.

 _From Vain Zayn: @ Ni’s why?_  
_To Vain Zayn: can i join ?_  
  _From Vain Zayn: ye course_  
  _To Vain Zayn: also can u come get me ? i’m @ urs_

There’s a long enough pause that Louis starts to worry his thumb nail between his teeth, mind so preoccupied with thoughts of Harry that he doesn’t even notice the time passing beyond the nervous habit.

 _From Token Irish Friend: Z’s on his way. U owe us an explanation tho lad._  
_To Token Irish Friend: yeah yeah promise_  
_To Token Irish Friend: thanks x_

☆

“So ya just… went off on him?” Niall asks, breaking the long silence following Louis’ explanation.

“Yeah,” he agrees quietly.

Zayn gives him a look before adding, “It’s not like it was completely unexpected after last night. Jus’… maybe you should’ve been a bit calmer about it, yeah?”

“Wha’ happened last nigh’?” Niall asks through a mouthful of crisps, head swiveling repeatedly between the other two.

“Straw that broke the camel’s back,” Louis mutters and Zayn shoots him another look. Louis must look pathetic enough that Zayn pities him and tells Niall about the events from the previous night, Louis avoiding both of their gazes until well after he’s finished.

“Lou.” Niall opens his arms in Louis’ direction and he gladly crawls into them, only huffing for show, really. “Have you told him how you feel?”

Louis scoffs. “You mean besides blowing up on him in our living room?”

“No, I mean—” Louis sees Zayn shake his head minutely out of the corner of his eye before Niall goes silent beneath him. 

Several long moments of silence follow, Niall and Zayn trying to communicate with only their eyes and Louis doing his best to interrupt with his.

“What’s this, then?” he finally speaks up, aiming the question at Zayn, but glaring at Niall for good measure. 

“Nothing,” Zayn responds forcefully whilst doing some complex head movement towards Niall that’s probably supposed to mean something but Louis doesn’t know what. 

When he glances at Niall, he sees the other lad looks just as confused. They should probably sign up for classes or summat.

“But… doesn’t he know already?” Niall asks, his brows furrowed in confusion.

“He _should_ know,” Zayn corrects. “But he’s a bit slow on the uptake.”

“What. Are. You. On. About?” Louis asks, putting excess force into each syllable.

A heavy sigh from Zayn is followed by his murmured, “Well, guess we might as well tell him.”

Niall jostles Louis enough that Louis sits up and looks at him, which was probably the intent. “You,” he starts, his hands gripping tightly at Louis’ biceps and holding his gaze unwaveringly, “are arse over tits in love with Harry.” 

Louis waits a beat to see if Niall is aware of how ridiculous he sounds, then bursts out laughing. He actually doubles over with the force of his laughter, tears collecting in the corners of his eyes.

“Yeah, okay, lads. Good one,” he finally says when he’s managed to catch his breath, wiping the tears from his eyes.

“Lou…” Niall starts a bit helplessly, only to be interrupted by Zayn.

“We’re not kidding. Stop deflecting and actually _think_ about it.” Zayn’s words are firm, bordering on harsh, but they ring with surety and truth.

It gives Louis pause, so he does. Think about it, that is. He thinks about how everyone has called the pair of them co-dependent since the day after One Direction was formed during bootcamp. He thinks about how they’re so close that there’s a large part of the fandom that _genuinely_ believes they’re in a relationship. He thinks about his jealousy over Chris and Harry’s friendship, how he and Harry have fit together since they met, in a way they don’t with anyone else, even the other boys. He thinks about Harry’s brightness, the light he brings to Louis’ life, about his kindness and honesty, the way he makes anything bad seem manageable. Louis thinks about how Harry can be his biggest support and truest confidant, his sense of self-preservation and his partner-in-crime.

He thinks how Harry’s always felt like family, how coming home to their flat doesn’t feel like coming home unless Harry’s there. He thinks about brown curls and green eyes and black eyelashes fluttering over pale skin in the mornings after they’ve fallen asleep sharing a pillow. He thinks about how Harry’s back fits into his own chest, even now that he’s got a couple inches on Louis. He thinks about Harry’s laugh, the one that startles out of rosy lips and frees his dimple, and then he thinks about the way he only laughs like that around Louis. 

He tries to imagine being in love with Harry, only to find it’s not up to his imagination. He’s already there.

Normally, he hates when Zayn’s right, but right now, as his breath hitches on a sob and he becomes aware of the wetness already on his cheeks, he can’t find it in him to care about anything beyond _HarryHarryHarry_. He feels like he swallowed the sun and has only just become aware of the burning expansion is his chest, his eyes screwing shut as he leans into Zayn’s shoulder and heaves out shuddering breaths.

He’s sandwiched between Niall and Zayn’s bony bodies, breathing just starting to even out as his heartbeat calms and all he can manage is, “Fuck.” 

☆

He leave’s Niall’s flat several hours later, after a round of FIFA, a couple beers, and an absurd amount of rice and chicken curry. It’s just past nine, the sky mostly dark around him when he walks back to the flat he shares with Harry. Harry, who he’s in love with. That’s not extremely fucking terrifying at all.

Niall and Zayn both offered to drive him home, but he refused, knowing he’d need the time to himself to process the day’s events, waving off their concerns by pointing out the late hour and unlikeliness of being mobbed by fans on the residential roads between their homes. And maybe he’s prolonging getting home because he doesn’t know what he’ll find there. 

Fine, he’s scared, all right? 

He doesn’t even know if Harry will be home. He doubts it, considering he stormed out on him more than six hours ago, and he’s not sure if he wants him to be. If he is, they might fight more or Louis might do something idiotic like _admit he's in love with him_. But if he _isn’t_ home, that probably means they're just delaying the inevitable. It probably means Harry is out with people more deserving of his attention and affection and it hurts Louis’ heart to realise he'll never deserve Harry the way he wants to. 

Harry is, really, too bright and lovely and kind for anyone to ever deserve him, but there are definitely people who come closer than Louis. Louis’ chest seizes suddenly at the realisation he’ll one day be forced to witness Harry happy and lovely and someone else’s. Between having to deal with that and losing Harry altogether, it’s a no-brainer. But that won’t make the experience more pleasant. 

He runs his hands through his hair and down his face, scratching his jaw through the light stubble there (one day he’ll be able to grow a beard, _seriously_ ) and carefully considers his options. He knows they’ll need to talk about their fight—their first-ever fight, which only makes Louis feel worse about himself and the whole situation, if he’s honest—and he also knows that following that he has two choices: tell Harry about his feelings despite them being newly-realised and terrifying, or ignore them and hope they go away. The idea of telling Harry is daunting, to say the least, but he’s also never been anything less than one-hundred per cent honest with him. 

Best-case scenario: he manages to make it through what would probably one of the most harrowing conversations of his life relatively unscathed, Harry acknowledges, accepts, and promptly forgets the information and their friendship carries on as always, Louis keeping his feelings in a tightly locked box stored in the far, _far_ recesses of his mind for the rest of time.

Worst-case scenario: ~~Harry laughs in his face and~~ Okay, realistically, Harry very kindly rejects Louis and they promise they’ll stay friends, but awkwardness descends on their quickly-deteriorating friendship like vultures and eventually, they only see each other out of necessity caused by being in the same internationally-successful boy  
band.

He sucks in a heavy breath as he approaches their building. He doesn’t think he’s ever been this nervous to walk into his own home, even as a kid after he’d done badly on an exam or broken that old vase his mum had gotten from her grandmother.

Releasing the breath on an eight-count, Louis makes his way through the doorway and into the lobby, nodding his greeting to Jeremy, the doorman on duty. His heart beats a tattoo against his sternum for the entirety of the lift ride up to their flat and it doesn’t stop as he tests the door to find it unlocked, letting himself in. 

“Haz?” he calls tentatively, silently cursing his voice for shaking and betraying how much he wants to run away and hide under his covers for at least a week. He pauses and listens as he toes off his trainers and dumps his keys on the table where they keep the mail. He thinks he hears shuffling coming from the side of the flat housing Harry’s room and he turns his head in time to see Harry pad into the hallway, eyes rimmed with red and joggers sagging low on his hips, a too-small Doncaster Rovers hoodie covering his torso. 

Louis’ heart breaks with how Harry looks so small and broken. He’s probably been bumming around the flat sadly and it’s all Louis’ fault. If he didn’t deserve Harry before, he sure as shit doesn’t now. All he wants to do is step into Harry’s space and wrap his arms around the younger boy until the light that’s currently dimmed sparks in his green eyes again. But Harry is looking at him warily, like Louis is a grenade and he’s waiting for him to go off so he can pick up his own shattered pieces in the aftermath. Louis almost flinches when their gazes lock.

“Harry…” he starts, not entirely sure where he’s going with it. He doesn’t get a chance to figure it out, though, because suddenly his arms are full of boy and he’s got curls tickling his nose as Harry clings to him and his body shakes with tears.

“God, Hazza, I’m so sorry,” he breathes into Harry’s hair once he’s recovered slightly. “I’m so sorry,” he says again, tightening his arms around him, then adds for good measure: “I’m such a twat, honestly. I shouldn’t have gone off like that and then just left. I’m so… so sorry, please don’t hate me.” He digs his fingers into where they’re clutching at Harry’s back, desperate for Harry to understand.

Harry sniffles against his collarbone, his forehead pressed into the juncture of Louis’ neck and shoulder. He shakes his head and gives a small, dry laugh. 

“I don’t hate you, Lou. Don’t be ridiculous.”

Louis has a rebuttal on the tip of his tongue, but he bites it back, opting instead to crush Harry just a little closer to him, appreciating his solid warmth from their hips to where Harry is still curled into Louis’ chest. Eventually, Louis reluctantly loosens his grip, lingering for a heartbeat to press his cheek to the top of Harry’s head.

“We should… probably talk about it, right? Pretend we’re proper adults or summat?” 

Harry sniffles and nods, looking so much like a child who lost his teddy that Louis wants to call it off and go back to just holding Harry, but he tamps the urge down. He knows this conversation, as painful and awkward as it may turn out to be, is necessary and any cut corners could only exacerbate a shitty situation.

He pulls Harry gently towards the living room and settles both of them onto the sofa, grabbing the worn blanket Anne gave Harry when he moved out and spreading it over their legs. The pair of them each have their legs tucked under them, facing each other without quite looking at the other; Louis is fiddling with the edge of the blanket in his lap while Harry has suddenly found the act of wrapping the chain of one of his necklaces around the tip of one finger incredibly fascinating.

One long moment passes. Then another. Halfway through the third, Harry’s breath hitches like he’s holding back tears and Louis’ head immediately whips up at the sound. 

His eyes land on Harry’s face just as it crumples, a fat tear rolling its way down Harry’s cheek, promptly followed by several more. 

“Shit,” he mumbles, wrapping his arms around Harry’s shoulders and pulling him into a hug. “I’m so sorry, babe,” he mutters, the endearment slipping out without his permission. “I’m the worst, I’m so sorry,” he keeps mumbling, subconsciously rocking them back and forth. 

He’s so focused on his fervent apologies that it takes a few moments for him to register Harry’s equally fervent head shakes against Louis’ shoulder. He pulls back just enough to look at Harry’s face, his arms still around his still-broadening shoulders.

“What? Why are you shaking your head? What’s wrong?” he rushes out, his voice barely louder than a whisper.

“S— Stop apologising,” Harry hiccoughs. “I’m the one who should be,” he finishes half-heartedly, like his voice just quit without warning. He takes a deep breath, continuing before Louis can even unscramble his thoughts. “You were right, I’ve been h— horrible to you. And you don’t deserve it. I di— didn’t even realise it and I’m so, so sorry, Louis.” Now it’s Louis’ turn to shake his head. 

“No. No, I was so out of line, okay? I don’t have a right to get jealous because you made a new friend and spend time with him. We’re not actually co-dependent, yeah?”

Harry’s shoulders shake in what could either be a tiny giggle or a hiccough. “We’re not?” he inquires, a hint of amusement colouring his tone.

“Well… maybe we are,” Louis huffs out around a laugh. “Or I am, at least. But still, that doesn’t give me the right to act like a possessive arsehole. I’m lucky to be in your life, Haz, but that doesn’t mean I get a say in how you live it. Chris seems like a great friend to you and it’s pretty shite for me to be jealous, innit.” 

His voice is probably the most serious he’s heard it since he came out to his mum, but this feels important. He needs Harry to understand that Louis gets it—gets that he was out of line and wants nothing more than to learn from the experience and move on. Harry is staring up at him, his eyes an even more brilliant green than usual where they’re offset by the deep pink of his waterline, his teeth worrying his bottom lip. 

“You’re… right,” he begins slowly, his words seeming even more deliberate than usual. “About not having a say in how I live my life. But you were also right before. I’ve been blowing you off. I’ve been maybe avoiding you? A little bit? I didn’t realise it until earlier, but… I have?” Harry’s eyelashes flutter downwards to land on his cheeks as he distinctly diverts his gaze from Louis’.

Louis can barely think over the rush of blood in his ears. Harry’s been avoiding him. Are Louis’ feelings so obvious that even Harry figured them out before he did? And now he feels uncomfortable around him so he just avoids the situation altogether? Subconsciously? Oh, _god_ , Louis’s ruined the whole thing without even confessing his feelings; why had he even considered that a valid option? Of course that could only mess things up. He closes his eyes for a brief moment, trying to slow his pounding heart as much as his racing thoughts. His grip on Harry’s shoulders has gone lax and he forces himself to let go altogether because the last thing he wants to do is make Harry uncomfortable.

“Why’s that?” he asks, trying to keep his voice light and curious, maybe overly so, considering the circumstances.

Harry is still refusing to look at him, though, and Louis can feel his panic rising. He barely hears Harry murmuring something in response and he definitely can’t make out any words, so he carefully reaches out and hooks a finger under Harry’s chin, forcing his head up until their eyes meet.

“Please just tell me,” Louis whispers, his voice barely maintaining itself throughout the sentence.

“I’m afraid of ruining everything,” Harry says again, still quiet but much firmer.

“How d’you figure you’d manage that?” Louis asks, brow furrowed as his hand drops back into the pile where his other one is sharing space with both of Harry’s.

Harry takes a breath like he’s bracing himself, the same way he used to right before a live performance during _The X Factor_. He locks eyes with Louis again as soon as his own open.

And then: “By being in love with you.”

Louis’ world stops spinning, just long enough to send him flying across its surface. He doesn’t quite believe it, wants to ask Harry to put it in writing so that in the future when his life has inevitably gone to shit, he can at least say that at one point Harry Styles loved with him. And then he wants to ask Harry if he’s sure because _his_ Hazza, bright and beautiful and brilliant, feeling the same way about Louis as Louis does about him seems impossible. He opens his mouth slightly, almost ready to let the words tumble out but they freeze when he glances at Harry again. He looks and he sees and he knows. Harry loves him back, not as mates or brothers. Harry loves Louis the way Louis has loved Harry since the day they met—even if he wasn’t aware of it until mere hours ago. And that’s huge. That’s everything.

He must freeze for a moment too long because suddenly Harry is wrenching himself away from Louis and off the couch, moving towards his room faster than Louis would’ve thought him capable of.

“Wha— Harry!” he calls after him, scrambling off the couch to follow him and somehow managing to get his foot caught in the blanket they were sharing, barely catching himself before he gets brained on the coffee table. He picks himself and the remaining shreds of his dignity up off the floor and runs to Harry’s room.

“Harry!” he calls when he tries to enter the younger lad’s room, only to find it locked. “Harry, please come talk to me.” He listens for a moment, not really expecting a response. 

A handful of long minutes pass. He finally breaks when he hears a pathetic little whimper come from Harry’s side of the door.

“Harry, love, please don’t cry. Please come talk to me. _Please_ ,” he begs. This is a conversation he’d much rather have face-to-face, but he’s not very far off from caving and talking to Harry’s door instead.

He hears another sniffle and begs again, “Please don’t cry. Please don’t waste your tears.”

He can practically hear the way Harry is petulantly shaking his head in response before he says, “‘S not like I can help being sad, Lou. Just leave me be. Please.”

“Harry,” Louis sighs loudly in response. “Harry,” he repeats more forcefully. When neither of those give him the desired results, he starts knocking on Harry’s door. Obnoxiously.

It only takes about forty-five seconds of Louis’ admirably annoying and persistent knocking before he hears Harry exhale loudly and shuffle his way across his room. He hears the lock click and pauses his knocking as Harry starts to open the door.

Louis takes one look at Harry’s tear-stained cheeks and his slightly mussed hair, the way he has his duvet wrapped around him like a cape and before he can think about it, he’s falling through the doorway and crashing into Harry, framing his face with his hands as he meets Harry’s lips with his own. He vaguely registers a small sound of surprise that he assumes comes from Harry, but he doesn’t bother sparing the time to acknowledge it when he has much more important things to be focusing on.

It takes Harry less than a second to recover from his shock and wrap his arms around Louis, still holding the corners of his duvet so it wraps around both of them like a very strange burrito. 

Harry kisses the way he does everything: slow and deliberate and lovely. His lips are so soft beneath Louis’ own, moving in a juxtaposing mix of confident and shy that only Harry could manage. Louis’s already light-headed and he’s not sure if it’s because he hasn’t properly breathed in the last minute or because of why he hasn’t, but either way, he’s willing to keep doing this until he passes out because he needs Harry’s lips on his more than he needs oxygen.

Their kiss slows down and Louis rubs his thumbs across Harry’s cheekbones, the rest of his fingers grasping the hinges of Harry’s jaw. His hands slip off of Harry’s face altogether before settling again in the curve of Harry’s waist and pulling him flush against Louis’ own body. He hears Harry’s breath hitch in the shared space where their mouths are still resting together and immediately recaptures Harry’s swollen lips, gripping his waist like it’s a raft and he’s drowning. He nips lightly at Harry’s top lip, running his tongue along curve of the bottom one when Harry parts them.

Harry’s arms are still anchored around Louis’ shoulders, his fingers slowly finding purchase in the hair on the nape of Louis’ neck. The duvet has somehow managed to stay loosely attached to the pair of them, but Louis isn’t even aware of it, thinks the entire world could explode and collapse and he wouldn’t notice if Harry kept kissing him. 

He pulls Harry impossibly closer as they tilt their heads, breathing audibly through their noses. He doesn’t know if he’s leading or following or if it’s a shared effort, but eventually their kisses slow to soft, closed-mouth presses, their lips lingering together for long moments. 

They separate barely enough to bring their foreheads together instead of their lips and Louis can't keep his eyes off of Harry’s face, regardless of the closeness making all his details unfocused. Harry’s lips are even redder and plumper than usual as a result of their kissing, spread into an almost-wild smile, and his cheeks tinged are with a blush that is probably the prettiest pink Louis has ever seen. 

It isn't until Harry’s thumb stops stroking across his cheekbone to catch a tear that he realises he's crying.

“Lou?” Harry’s voice is barely a whisper and somehow manages to crack in the middle of the single syllable. 

Louis doesn't have words to explain how overwhelmed he is by everything that’s happened in the past twenty-four hours. He woke up this morning with his nose squished into Zayn’s bony, smelly armpit and somehow managed to spend the day fighting with and the night kissing his best friend, who he’s in love with. And who’s in love with him. Is there a stronger word than overwhelmed? He’s that. 

But words are failing him, so he simply wraps his arms around Harry’s waist and buries his face where his shoulder and neck meet, letting a shaky breath escape him. 

“Louis?” Harry tries again after an undetermined amount of time passes.

“Yeah, love?” drops from Louis’ mouth and gets caught in the dip of Harry’s collarbone before Louis raises his head just enough to glance at Harry from the corner of his eye.

“I’m sorry if— I mean. Why are you crying?” he finally settles on.

Louis’s still sniffling as he replies, eyes trained on where one of his hands is loosely fisted in Harry’s shirt. 

“I’m not sure. Last night was just so shit and then today I thought I was going to lose you because I was such a twat but now you’re telling me you love me and I’m just a bit… overwhelmed,” he finishes slightly more calmly, the words coming out without tripping over themselves on his tongue.

Harry hums a bit, nodding in understanding, and sweeps his hand up and down Louis’ back, giving them a moment to just breathe together. Louis is so, so in love with him. It seems absurd now, mere hours later, that he could have ever thought his reality contained any other truth. Of course he’s in love with Harry. Who wouldn’t be? He thinks he’s going to need a lot of time to fully process that Harry loves him back, but he thinks that’ll be okay. They definitely have time. 

☆

Louis blinks groggily at the clock, which stares back at him, an unwavering red 02:37. He turns his head back to face Harry, who’s still sleeping soundly, small puffs of air creating half-formed ripples on the pillowcase in front of his mouth. They’re both fully clothed with the exception of their shoes, having been too tired to put on pyjamas or even strip down to their pants. Sleeping in jeans isn’t particularly comfortable for Louis, and Harry is definitely going to have an imprint on his cheek from lying on one of the buttons from his shirt.

Louis wants to kiss him, so much, all the time. He wants to run his fingers through the beautiful curls atop his head, press declarations of his love into his skin. 

Love.

Louis jolts up so quickly he gets a head rush. He hasn’t told Harry he loves him yet. He thinks Harry knows, but what if he doesn’t? The only person more oblivious than Louis is Harry. 

Louis shoves at Harry’s shoulder gently. “Harry, Haz, Hazza.” There’s a tiny groan in response. Louis swings one leg over Harry so he’s straddling his waist.

“Harold.”

“Wha—?” Harry twists a bit so his back is flat on the bed before sparkling green eyes are looking up at Louis. His brows crinkle slightly in confusion even as his cheeks press into dimples.

“Good morning?” he asks, eyes still locked on Louis’, smiles still bright enough to light up the completely dark room. Louis just shakes his head a little, smiling quietly when Harry simply looks more confused in response.

He leans down to catch Harry’s lips with his own, leaning his weight on one hand while the other strokes Harry’s cheek.

“I love you,” he breathes into Harry’s mouth as they part. His heart his fluttering in his chest, but he’s not sure if it’s nerves or excitement and he also doesn’t particularly care. “I’m so, unbelievably in love with you,” he insists, pressing another kiss to Harry’s smiling lips. “Like, embarrassingly in love with you,” he clarifies. 

Harry’s grin is blinding, his eyes starry and beautiful, and Louis wishes he could capture this moment, this feeling, forever. Bottle it up like pixie dust, keep it on a chain around his neck so it will stay with him always.

Harry leans up a centimetre to bump his nose with Louis’. 

“The feeling is definitely mutual,” he breathes. 

They trade kisses for long moments after that, hands running up arms and down backs, basking in the simple thrill of being together in every way they never allowed themselves to hope for.

Eventually, their eyelids begin to feel heavy again and all Louis wants to do is hold Harry close and surrender to sleep, but he knows they shouldn’t sleep in their clothes again.

“Haz?”

“Hm?” Harry’s eyes are barely open and they keep fluttering like he’s fighting to keep them open even that much.

“We should take off our kits.”

“I’m not that kind of girl, Lou. At least buy me dinner first.” He can feel the way Harry’s cheeky grin is pressing his face into Louis’ and he rolls his eyes in an attempt to hide how stupidly endeared he is.

“Not like that, you prat. And I’ve bought you dinner plenty.” 

Harry squints one eye open at him, his smile never faltering, and hums like he’s considering it.

“C’mon, babe, it’ll be so much more comfortable to not sleep in jeans.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Harry grumbles lightly before taking his shirt off, mostly through a series of complicated manoeuvres to avoid sitting up more than necessary. Louis averts his eyes, still feeling unsure that he’s allowed to look despite having touched, but Harry breaks through his thoughts with a, “Lou, help, I’m stuck.”

When Louis looks back up, Harry’s shirt is off and his jeans are around his thighs, like that’s the farthest he could reach before he gave up. Louis grins a little, crawling over to Harry and hooks his fingers in the waistband to finish pulling them off. Harry tries to help get his feet out and nearly kicks Louis in the face, but Louis is giggling too hard to really care.

Once Harry’s finally down to just his pants and Louis follows suit, they manage to actually crawl under the covers before falling asleep again. 

☆

Waking up wrapped around Harry has been one of Louis’ favourite things since the first time it happened, way back in their days at the _X Factor_ House. On this particular morning, though, it might be the best thing he’s ever experienced. Because now he’s allowed to linger, to glance down and watch as Harry’s eyelids flutter lightly with his dreams, his breaths long and even, looking young and beautiful and wild. They somehow shuffled in their sleep so that Louis is still on his side but Harry has moved to his back, his head against the front of Louis’ throat, his lips brushing against the dip between his clavicles. Louis tightens the arm he still has slung around Harry’s waist, pressing a kiss into his curls and allowing himself a chance to enjoy the moment. He closes his eyes and takes a second to remember the events that unfolded within the past twenty-four hours, smiling when he thinks about their kisses and declarations of love.

He must fall asleep again, because the next thing he’s aware of is the feeling of lips pressing gently into the skin of his chest over and over again, soft enough that it almost feels like the person doing it doesn’t realise they are. He blinks his eyes open slowly, lowering them to see Harry’s curls and the very tip of his nose, everything else blocked into obscurity by their angles before Harry tilts his head and blinds Louis with the brightness of his smile.

“G’mornin’” he says softly, his voice rough with sleep but his eyes shining happily.

“Morning, love,” Louis replies, painfully aware of how his voice has gone soft and fond. He doesn’t much mind at the moment.

“I love you,” is Harry’s only response as he shifts up so they’re at eye level, noses so close they’re touching and Louis’ eyes cross to look at Harry’s.

“I love you so much,” he rushes out, sounding breathless with his urgency to make sure Harry knows. He wonders when, or if, he’ll stop feeling the desperate buzzing under his skin, like he’ll die if he doesn’t ensure Harry knows how he feels.

Harry’s cheek dips into a dimple, which Louis’ thumb comes up to press into before pressing his lips to Harry’s. The kiss is exactly what Louis always imagined lazy morning kisses would be like: sweet and unhurried, less of a real kiss and more two smiles colliding together like waves upon a shore. Their attempts at kisses quickly dissolve into happy giggles being nuzzled together, eyes with crinkles in the corners, fingers that grasp impossibly tighter. 

Louis feels light, like his blood has been carbonated and he's at risk of floating up to the ceiling. If the way Harry's looking at him is any indication, he's feeling similarly. 

“Should we get up?” Harry finally asks, his voice still raspy with disuse.

“Never,” Louis denies firmly. He feels, more than sees, Harry’s face stretching into a smile.

“We have plans with the lads, babe,” Harry points out.

They do, which Louis totally did _not_ forget about until Harry reminded him, but even still: “Fuck ‘em. I’m sick of their ugly mugs. I don’t want to move except for food, tea, and maybe the occasional bathroom break if absolutely necessary.”

Harry giggles into Louis neck as Louis’ voice gets more dramatic throughout his speech. 

Neither of them says anything else for a few moments, Louis hand painting wide strokes up and down Harry’s back while Harry’s fingers doodle tiny designs on Louis’ shoulder. Maybe there should be tension or awkwardness, considering they’re both down to only their pants, legs intertwined and entire bodies pressed together wherever they fit, like Tetris pieces. But it’s Harry and it’s Louis, and they’ve never played by anyone else’s rules.

It’s been quiet for long enough that Louis wonders if Harry’s fallen back asleep and is debating whether to check or simply fall asleep himself when Harry speaks up. 

“Hey,” he starts, voice soft and curious. “Where did you go yesterday?”

“Niall’s. Well, I started off going to Zayn’s, but he wasn’t home because he was at Ni’s, so I ended up there with both of them,” Louis explains.

“Did they… if you only think you… because they told you….” Harry’s brow furrows adorably and Louis thinks it’s a testament to the strength of their friendship that he can concentrate on anything Harry says when he looks that cute, let alone that he can figure out what Harry’s trying to say based on the broken sentences he’s receiving.

“No. Hey. Haz, no. They didn’t tell me anything about your feelings, okay? Though they could’ve, the twats, considering I nearly had a panic attack. They just slapped some sense into me. About my side of things,” he clarifies. “And then distracted me with food and FIFA.” “Usually works,” Harry comments wisely.

“That’s true,” Louis nods. A beat passes. “So, did they, like, know how you felt about me?” he wonders aloud.

“ _Feel_ ,” Harry corrects. “And, erm, yeah. I kind of got a bit drunk one night when you were… I don’t remember. Maybe you were visiting your mum and the girls, but anyway. You weren’t with us and I started drunkenly crying about how stupid I was for falling in love with my best mate. Liam and Zayn were probably the only ones other than you who could’ve possibly understood what I was babbling on about. And they did, and I swore them to secrecy, and then Niall, once I found out they’d already told him, but they’ve been trying to get me to tell you for ages. I just… never meant for it to happen like this.”

“But you were gonna tell me at some point, right?” Louis asks.

“I think so. I think I sort of… I wanted to wait until it ended. So I could laugh it off as something silly I did when I was young and naïve, but, erm, it didn’t. Go away, that is.”

“Thank god,” Louis breathes out, almost involuntarily, causing Harry to huff a delighted little giggle into the space between their faces. Louis’ eyes never leave Harry’s face, and he’s sure if he were a cartoon they’d be shaped like hearts right now. Harry’s eyes are locked on where he’s resumed drawing patterns on Louis’ shoulder, fingers hesitant and firm at the same time. Another juxtaposition only Harry seems able to manage. 

Louis bumps Harry’s chin with an index finger so he’s sure Harry is looking at him when he says, “I’m sorry it took me so long. To clue in. I’m sorry you were miserable because of me.”

“No, Lou. It wasn’t like that. Of course I wanted you to love me back, but do you know how special I felt—how special I _feel_ —that you’re my best mate? You’re so… you’re everything, Louis. You’re bright and smart and so, so funny. Crazy kind. Just crazy, sometimes,” his voice reflects the cheeky smile on his face, “and everyone is so drawn to you. I never felt like I was missing out on something because my feelings weren’t reciprocated. I still got to have a small piece of you, still got to share some part of your life. And that was more than enough for me. Still is, if that’s all you want to give to me.”

“It isn’t,” Louis denies quickly. He’s blinking rapidly, trying to rid his eyes of the moisture that collected there while Harry spoke. “I want to give you everything. I always have, even before I realised how I really felt about you. All that stuff you just said, I— that’s exactly how I felt about you. I’ll never deserve you, baby, but I’ve always wanted to. I’ll always try my best to, I promise.” 

Harry’s shaking his head, lips pressed together tightly like he always does when he’s trying not to cry. 

“Don’t say that, okay? Don’t. We deserve each other, just because we want to be together, right?” At Louis’ nod, he continues. “That’s all that matters. You have to believe that. You’re everything I could want. I’ve loved you since I was sixteen years old. When we met in the loo and when we got put together with the others and when we moved to London and now and all the moments in between. I’ve loved you the whole time. So much. A stupid amount.”

There’s definitely tears involved now; Louis’ eyelashes are wet and he can see a tear travelling over the bridge of Harry’s nose towards the pillow he’s lying on. He feels his own bottom lip tremble and before he can stop himself, he’s giggling. Proper girly, high-pitched giggles because he’s feeling so much and all of it is _good_ , is _the best_ and he’s not sure how they went from talking about tea and bathroom breaks to baring their souls to each other, but it’s so them and all he ever wants is to be one half of them. One half of Louis and Harry. If everything else fails, if One Direction’s success were to end in this moment, if at the end of it all he’s got his boys and _his boy_? Fuck the rest.

Harry gives him a slightly bewildered look before joining in with his own giggles and then they’re kissing again. He doesn’t know who initiates it, but he doesn’t really care, gripping Harry’s head to keep it close to his own, Harry’s fingers spread on his neck, his thumb drawing an arc on his cheek. It’s perfect and Louis doesn’t think he could ever be happier than he is in this moment. 

☆

They do, eventually, make it out of bed and into their showers—separate showers; they need to save _something_ for the second date—after taking a cheesy photo and sending it to the group chat they have with their mums (called _arMUMgeddon_ , thanks to Harry) without a caption, prompting lots of questions which they giggled at and deflected with a promise to Skype soon. They both emerge from their rooms, dressed, just before Niall shows up. He takes one look at them, with their still-kiss-swollen lips and bright eyes and what feel like permanent dopey smiles and pulls them both into a hug.

“‘Bout time the pair of ya got your shit together!” he exclaims before releasing them and pushing his way into their flat. They exchange a look, shaking their heads fondly at him before following him into the kitchen. 

By the time Zayn and Liam show up, the three of them are working their way through a bag of crisps and a beer each. The new arrivals offer hugs and congratulations to Louis and Harry before ambling off to get their own beers. 

Louis doesn’t know what he expected, but it wasn’t for everything to stay exactly the same for the five of them. Not that he’s surprised, really—he and Harry were already so couple-y, in retrospect, that their group is more than used to it. Still, he feels a split second of hesitation when he leans down to kiss Harry where his head is in Louis’ lap. No one notices, not even Harry, who kisses him back happily, though he must be mindful of their friends as much as Louis is because they’re sure to keep it soft and chaste. When Harry smiles up at him after they break apart, it feels like coming home. Like he’s finally managed to cement closed the cracks he’d long forgotten were there. He’s got his boys and _his boy_.

Fuck the rest.

**Author's Note:**

> Original prompt:  
> “I adore the way Chris is a fan of Harry and the boys in general, so I want a fic that will show Louis reacting to the way Chris fangirls over Harry. Anything, as long as it is Larry endgame of course. And don't make Chris the bad guy, he is obviously adorable.”
> 
> Ayo author reveal!  
> Come say hi on [tumblr](http://www.yafookinlousah.tumblr.com). (:


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